Drew visits China and realizes Vietnam is really quite a nice place

Today marks the end of Golden Week here in Japan, a confluence of several government holidays that creates a week-long complete closure of basically every business in Japan.  Understandably, everyone decides to travel during this week (because no one would dare take off more than 2 consecutive days in Japan unless they were forced to do so).  Being the good Japanese guy that I am, I travelled too.  I went to Hainan Island, the southernmost provence of China and an island which is often referred to as “China’s Hawaii”.  And I guess Hainan Island is China’s Hawaii, in much the same way that Tiananmen Square is China’s Statue of Liberty.

I’m not sure China will ever be a super power.  At least it won’t be a super power in the same way that the US is a super power.  It’ll be a super power like the Soviet Union was a superpower.  It’ll be a fake superpower that will provide plenty of fodder to juice the coffers of Boeing, Lockheed Martin, and Xe (formerly known as Blackwater).  And the perceived threat of China (militarily and economically) will get many politicians elected in the US.  But behind the bark of their cardboard, 1970’s-era navy and the threat of a rogue general setting off World War III with a nuclear missile here or there, there won’t be much bite.  There’s way too much poverty.  Extreme poverty.  There’s way too much ignorance and a near-complete lack of globally-relevant education for so many who don’t ever see overseas.  There are too many different cultures and languages and nations under one flag to ever be cohesive enough to do any real world dominating.  And they don’t seem to even have as much concern for the environment as the US does, and that’s pretty bad.

But I gave China a chance.  I really did.  I was very excited about visiting.  We were going to a tropical paradise, an economic zone that was set up by the Chinese to encourage travel from overseas and the importation of foreign money.  Kind of.  They seem to want American visitors just a little less than anyone else.  There is a long list of countries whose citizens can visit China freely, no visa required.  There’s another, shorter list of countries who will need a visa.  It’ll cost you, though.  Around $30.  But there’s one more country on neither of those lists that requires a little more of a commitment.  For an American passport holder to get a visa to China costs $150.  5x any other country -- nice, eh?  I was beginning to feel unwelcome.  But I was not deterred!  I booked my trip, and to make up for the expected lack of hospitality at the airport I would stay at the Ritz Carlton.  Score one for the good guys...

Got to give Rio credit where credit is due.  We both packed into one big back pack.  The two backpacks we're carrying -- mine on my stomach and hers on her back -- were just for travel gear like iPods and sweaters and books.

After a less than stellar flight aboard China Southern Airlines we arrived at Guangzhou, a regional hub airport where passengers are offloaded and made to walk 2 kilometers through the most impressive airport I’ve ever seen (I mean that seriously, this thing was massive and cavernous and very new -- and extremely inefficient) to sit around and wait   for the next leg of the flight, perhaps while the pilots are trained.  We walked for 30 minutes from one end of the airport to the other end of the airport from which our second flight was to depart, and only after going through security to the nearly vacant A Terminal were we told our next flight was delayed 2 hours.  But there was a nice restaurant where we could have a drink and a bite to eat.  We both had a very nice meal, and tea and a milkshake for under JPY 2,000 ($20).  Unfortunately that nice restaurant didn’t accept credit cards, and no where in the terminal could you exchange money for RMB without going back out through security.  After a colorful exchange of pleasantries that neither the hostess nor I could completely understand, followed by a quick succession of phone calls to her boss, and the airport manager, and perhaps President Hu, they reluctantly agreed to accept Japanese Yen.  We decided to beat a hasty retreat from the restaurant and retire to more comfortable digs down by the boarding gate for our next flight.  With 2 hours to kill I found a cozy place to catch some sleep.  The steel armrests wedged into both my sternum and crotch was a nice segue to the rest of the trip.

At 5 minutes past midnight we boarded a bus and rode 15 minutes back to the end of the airport we’d arrived at to board our flight.  The boarding gate was next to the gate we’d disembarked from 4 hours earlier, but now the entire wing of the airport was dark and deserted so we all climbed stairs from the bus on the tarmac to board our Soviet era converted bomber.  I’m pretty sure some wheezing Japanese octogenarians were left to die on the tarmac.  But at least with an empty seat behind me I could now recline without feeling guilty, which was nice.

At 2 AM we arrived in Sanya, one of two major cities on Hainan Island, and after an hour long bus ride we pulled into the Ritz Carlton resort and spa.  

One of the views from the hotel -- much of the area is still under development, hence the dirt.

Despite the fact that it's 2009, and we're at a world-class resort, construction is still done with bamboo scaffolding.  Kind of neat, I think.

The first full day in China was actually very nice.  The weather was perfect, and we lounged by the pool and on the beach all day long, sipping on margaritas and pina coladas and Chinese beer.  At least I did.  Rio had one cocktail (“please make it weak”) and passed out with her mouth open after a quick monologue about how she just loves people, especially her parents and chihuahuas.

That night we decided we’d leave the safety of the resort and take a taxi to Sanya.  That way we could see a little bit of the real China, and get some real Chinese food!  We were smart, though, and we got a restaurant recommendation in Sanya and directions (written in Chinese) from the front desk to give to the cab driver.  After a short cab ride, though, he dropped us off at a deserted open-air shopping mall, with one restaurant in the corner.  We were quickly grabbed by the valet and whisked into a seafood restaurant.  Had the concierge called ahead and told them to expect us?  What nice service!  We ordered the fish we wanted from what looked like a tropical fish store, and watched as the fish we’d condemned was netted out of the tank by a gap-toothed, giggling man and vigorously beaten on the floor until dead.  We chose to dine al fresco, but were quickly taken inside to join the other 2 customers because the fluorescent street lamps that illuminated the patio were raining down more dead insects than the wait staff could tolerate.  Inside we realized that this might not be the right restaurant, and slowly pieced together that if we were in Sanya, a town of 500,000 people, there should be more people.  It turned out that our cab driver had deposited us at a restaurant that gave him a nice finder’s fee, and was only 5 minutes from our hotel.  Sanya was at least 30 minutes away if our long bus ride the night before had been any indication!  We’d been had!  So we finished our meal, paid whatever they asked of us and left, knowing that our protestations would fall on deaf ears.  Needless to say no cabs were perusing this vacant shopping area for customers, so we asked (in sign language) the girl at the front desk to call a cab for us.  We think she said she would, and after none arrived for more than 20 minutes a guy in a 1986 Toyota Corolla took us back to the hotel.  He definitely wasn’t a cab, but he took my money anyway.  We were just glad to be back at the hotel, and we crawled into bed to await what we assumed would be violent diarrhea and vomiting around 4 AM.

Day 2 arrived and neither of us had any trace of food poisoning.  We started the day the same as before, me enjoying some drinks by the pool and Rio sipping a near-virgin coconut drink and then trying to go comatose in a position that would provide the least risk of choking to death on her own vomit.

In the afternoon we got a wild hair and opted to go scuba diving.  So after a strenuous training session involving putting on our wetsuits and learning how to put the respirator in our mouths we were given a tank and goggles and shoved on a boat.  After a short ride we were in a small bay, and two Chinese guys put on their scuba gear and pushed us in the water.  Once in, the only thing we lacked were flippers.  But this wasn’t going to be real scuba, this was puppet scuba.  Both Rio and I had a dedicated guide with us, and he had the flippers.  His job was to hold onto our tank from above, and suspend us wherever he pleased at whatever depth he liked like aquatic marionettes.  But it was an eye-opening experience.  

It wasn’t beautiful.  I’ve snorkeled in the Bahamas, and I’ve snorkeled in Thailand.  I’ve seen beautiful, clear water and I’ve seen vibrant coral and huge schools of colorful fish.  China didn’t have that.  The water was murky, at best.  Visibility was maybe 20 feet, and it was like looking through a foggy piece of glass.  Clear enough to keep from hitting things, but not clear enough to really enjoy.  And at 40 feet deep it was damn-near dark.  Creepy.  On the surface of the small bay there were swirling eddies of plastic bags and food wrappers and tin cans and aluminum cans.  In the water, tumbling across the sand 10 meters deep like tumble weed in slow motion were countless shopping bags.

But our sadistic puppet masters knew how to make this situation interesting for us.  They swam around, running us face-first into any coral they could find.  Literally pushing your face into soft, flowing coral (such that there were).  In Thailand we were warned not to touch anything, not the fish, and especially not the coral.  If you touch it, they said, it could die and Thailand’s booming eco-tourism business could die with it.  But the Chinese don’t subscribe to the same long-term view of nature.  We were encouraged to touch anything, and if we resisted we were shown how.  They would break off chunks of hard coral, or yank off hands full of waving, soft coral.  I came upon a huge sea urchin, with spines more than 12 inches long.  It looked pretty scary, and I showed my dive guide my closed fist (which we were told was the signal for don’t touch) in an effort to let him know that I knew to steer clear.  But he wanted to show me how brave he was, and with his flippered foot he stomped on the poor thing, flattening it and breaking off all of its spines.  As I watched the shattered spines float away in the current I lost interest in diving in China, and realized that it’s likely that none of us will be able to do it for much longer.  

That night we decided to try to eat dinner in Sanya again, assuming that we were more savvy now and wouldn’t let a cab driver pull the same trick.  Once again we got directions and a recommendation, and the concierge sent us to the “nicest and most popular Chinese restaurant in Sanya”.  The cab driver was a different one, and he was personally picked by the Ritz Carlton staff to take us where we wanted to go -- we’d been quite vocal about our displeasure with the previous nights events.  But 5 minutes into our 30 minute cab ride it began again.  In very limited English, and augmented by hand gestures and miming, the cab driver was insistent that the restaurant we wanted to go to was too expensive, and Sanya was too far away to make sense.  We wouldn’t like the city and would enjoy the restaurant he wanted to take us to much more.  He actually pulled the cab over and into the parking lot of the restaurant he wanted us to eat at.  But we stood our ground.  We had a piece of paper that said the restaurant in Chinese, and I took it out one more time.  In my best no-nonsense, stop-your-bullshitting manner I dropped my smile, held the paper beside my face and pointed at the name, lowered my head, and glared up at the driver.  “Take me here, now”, I said without smiling or seeming at all amused.  He smiled, and started the cab up again.  20 minutes later we arrived in Sanya.  Luckily Rio is Japanese and can read a lot of the Chinese alphabet, so she confirmed that we were indeed sitting in front of the restaurant written on the card by the hotel.  Only then did we pay the cab driver the 60 RMB fare (less than $10).

We took this picture in the cab on the way to Sanya, just before the argument with the driver...

Inside we were confused, because this “most popular and most delicious restaurant in Sanya” wasn’t what we expected.  It was 7 PM and there was no one else there.  Literally no one.  But there were about 30 people staffing the huge dining room.  Tired and jaded, we gave up the fight and ate there anyway, and had a so-so meal.  This one, though, was half the cost of the meal the night before.  Probably because we could have easily gotten a cab and left if we’d have needed to.

"The nicest and most popular restaurant in Sanya."

After dinner we went for a walk from the restaurant to the shopping district.  Along the way we crossed a river, and I took this picture.  

We also passed a pedestrian area where about twenty ten-year-olds were racing on rollerblades while there parents cheered them on.  I assume it was their parents, but it could have just been people gambling on the races.  I did notice that the losing children were being auctioned off for dog food, but I thought nothing of it at the time.

Rio bought some fruit from a roadside stand.  Neither of us had ever had it before, and I’ve since decided that this might not be a great idea.  I’m all for trying new food.  I’ve had some of my most rewarding experiences while trying a new food: possibly poisonous blowfish in Japan with a group of good friends, hotpot in the mountains of Vietnam after a long day of riding bikes, or wurst and sauerkraut in a pub under the train tracks in Berlin.  But maybe trying something completely new, consisting solely of an ingredient I’ve never tried before in my life, while on the street in a rural town in China where no one speaks any English or Japanese is not the best idea.  The fruit was great, like nothing I’ve ever had.  Sweet, almost syrupy, but with a fibrous texture like pineapple soaked in molasses.  Luckily I was absolutely stuffed from the meal we’d just had, so I only had one bite.  But about 2 minutes after I swallowed it my throat started itching.  I swallowed again, and tried to scratch the tickle in the back of my throat with some coughs.  No good.  I swallowed some more, and began to notice that swallowing was difficult.  I told Rio, and my voice came out high pitched and muffled.  She had some water, but drinking the water burned and was difficult.  So we went into a market, and I bought some orange juice.  I sipped on the orange juice while we assessed the situation.  It was bad, but it wasn’t getting any worse.  I could breath, but not swallow, and my epiglottis was extremely swollen.  I was a trooper though, and we continued toward the market to do a little shopping.  

The market was interesting.  It was like an open-air mall, but most of the shops were unrecognizable.  There was a store there that looked just like a Nike store, but the brand was a little different and the name was Chinese.  But if you replace their zag with a swoosh I’d have sworn it was a Nike store.  And despite the fact that Tokyo is a city of 30,000,000 and I’ve seen only one Adidas store, this open-air market in this relatively small Chinese town literally had 3 “Adidas” stores within 5 shop spaces of each other.  Each decorated a little differently and selling a little different Adidas apparel.  I can only conclude that not only does China sell counterfeit clothes, but they often sell them to the Chinese from counterfeit stores.  But take any of these “Adidas stores” and put them in a US mall and I could not tell you if they were fake.  It was very strange.  Yet another reason that China won’t ever make the ranks of true superpower without big changes -- there’s a lack of rule of law, and there are no protections for intellectual property.  Why innovate in China?  I’d much rather innovate in Japan or the US.  I’ll manufacture in China, but that’s it.

After a little shopping we decided that I needed to get back to the hotel and take some allergy medicine in the hope that over-the-counter Claritin has some antihistamines in it.   It was scary, not because it happened so much as because of where it happened.  I would NOT want to get seriously sick in rural China -- you could end up an unwilling kidney donor.

As I write this I’m back in Japan, and quite happy at that.  I’m glad that I saw coastal China, and I’m glad that I had the experience I did.  I’m glad we didn’t stay at the hotel the entire time because my view of China might not be accurate.  But it’s probably not accurate now, either.  I might have a very different opinion if I’d been to Shanghai or Beijing.  And I would still very much like to visit one or both of those cities, but I think that I can safely say that China still has a long, long way to go before it will ever be a real contender.  The only thing, as I see it, that China has is an absolute crap-ton of people.  With 1.3 billion people you can have per capita GDP of only $2,500 and still be the world’s third-largest economy, but you might never be more than the world’s factory.

I know how I'm wearing my hair when I go bald

I’m afraid that I’m getting to a point in my tenure here in Japan that things aren’t quite as shocking.  I’m not panicking to reach my camera every time I see beautiful temple or a serene park, a bustling street, or a man dressed as Daisy Smurf flying a kite from the back seat of chauffeur-driven tandem bicycle.  Things just aren’t surprising anymore...somehow.  

So you will understand my glee when last week I along with some friends rented a car and drove a couple hundred kilometers north of Tokyo to Nikko.  Nikko is a town that caters to tourists, and can best be described as Japan’s Pigeon Forge with a little less class.  The primary draws are ryokans (a Japanese bed and breakfast), strawberries, and Edo Wonderland.  We stayed in a ryokan, we ate a beautiful Japanese dinner, we picked strawberries, and we soaked in the onsens (hot springs).  

I went with my new buddy Brent and his girlfriend along with Rio and Rie, a couple more friends of mine.  Here Brent and I pose next to what will likely be the inspiration for my lower-back tattoo -- a character with a head shaped like a pork dumpling.

Here we are eating dinner at the ryokan.  Brent and I discussed at length the probable complaints by the dish washer at night when he's lying in bed with his wife:  "That son-of-a-bitch Marty over at the ryokan shot me down again today when I suggested they put the wasabe on the same plate as the sushi!  He just said 'That's just how it's done...like I said last time Jose, if you have a problem with it you can take it up with Chip'.  But Chip's a bigger asshole than Marty!  He's such a freakin' Japanophile that even mentioning paper plates gets his panties in a wad."

Brent nearly ruined a perfectly delightful meal by learning the hard way that you are supposed to wear underwear beneath your kimono when dressing for dinner.

With Rio and Rie, smiling through the searing pain in my legs that always follows my sitting on the floor for more than 5 minutes.

Thankfully we went to Edo Wonderland, an authentic reproduction of what Japan would have been like before the Meiji restoration in the 1800s and before Japan was opened to outside influences, but apparently not before corndogs.

I’ll spare you the suspense, Edo Wonderland was AWESOME!  We got to see a well choreographed stage production of what I think was called “Middle-aged guys in ninja outfits getting paid slightly more than what they’d make at McDonald’s to do a much riskier job that makes them comedic fodder for assholes like me”.  The title left some things to the imagination, but I think the writer was attempting to say more with less.  

Like everything in Japan, the actors took this job very seriously.  [here fact ends and fiction begins -- for those lacking the ability to recognize sophisticated humor]  In fact, during the performance of the second show entitled “Guy in black pajamas twirls plastic samurai sword while looking very serious” I inadvertently chuckled, for a long time and from a very deep place in my belly.  Well this really upset Gary the Samurai and he stopped the “show”, gingerly sheathing his sword as if remembering that time that he’d nearly opened his femoral artery with a careless swipe of this butter knife.  

“Eraso-ni iuna-yo?” said Gary (“Who do you think you are?”).  

I stood up, yelling “Warawaeruna-yo. Konjo nashi!” (“Don’t make me laugh. You don’t have the guts!”) 

“Konjo-wa arusa!” (“I’ve got guts!”)

Breaking into English I stood up, and revealed that I was wearing a full samurai outfit.  “Wrong...you DID have guts.”

And almost immediately, with a cool swipe of my bare hands -- like a man calmly reaching into a microwave for a Hotpocket -- I eviscerated him.  Gutless Gary stood there for a full 15 seconds trying to wrap his mind around the series of events that had led him here.  Here, to being bested by a gaijin.  Here, to me holding his dimly beating heart in front of his slowly dilating eyes.  And with that, the blood ceased to flow to his head and he collapsed into a heap on the ancient tatami mat.  

Luckily, one of my friends had a camera and captured a portion of these events for posterity.  My only prayer is that the authorities do not find this and present it as evidence at my inevitable trial in The Hague.

You can click on the picture to take a closer look at the fury in my eyes.

Tokyo Drew, over and out.

Big Trouble in Little China

This weekend I went to Chinatown, here in Tokyo.  I took an 45-minute train ride south of the city to Yokohama with a friend, and we spent the evening and night exploring, eating dim sum, eating food from street vendors, and drinking in a jazz bar, before catching the last train back into the city.

Jazz here is very popular, and jazz bars are a fun thing to see.  The bands are usually very good -- they make me want to play an instrument.  Everything makes me want to play an instrument except for actually playing an instrument.  Playing an instrument makes me want to read.  And reading makes me wonder what I’m missing on TV...I think it’s about time for Lost...

One thing that continues to amaze me about Japan is how good they are at being a society.  You have 130 million people crammed into an area smaller than California, and most of those people are in a few major cities.  So there are certain social graces that are almost always observed.  

Every request is followed by a “kudasai” or “onegaishimasu” which means “please”, more or less, and almost every other kind of statement has a polite word or honorific shoved into the word order.  It’s a social lubricant.  And people are great about waiting in lines.  You’ll never be passed in line at a grocery store or coffee shop.  It’s just not done.  You won’t see people walking across the street against the light: even if a car can’t be seen in any direction a crowd of people will wait until the sign says “walk” to make their collective move.  That is unless I come along, look both ways, mumble something under my breath and cross.  Then the whole crowd will cross because it’d be rude to let me cross alone.  

If you ask someone for directions it’s very likely that, instead of pointing you where you should go and going about their day, they will put aside what it is they’re doing and personally walk you where you need to go.  And they might just help you carry your bags and apologize for making you walk.  On the subway it’s very quiet.  The only people you ever seem to hear talking are Gaijin (foreigners).  Japanese people will sit quietly, looking straight ahead or at their feet or, if they’re particularly gutsy, having a whispered conversation with their companion.

These rules are universal.  You will only see them bent in one circumstance, albeit a commonly occurring circumstance...beer.  And you’re nowhere more likely to come across a drunk Japanese person than one of the last subway trains home on a Saturday night.  That’s where I met this guy, and he was diligently bending one particular rule to it’s breaking point...

What was particularly funny about this, in addition to the obvious, was the complete disinterest that the young lady to his left was showing.  Lost in her own thoughts, and either unaware or uncaring that the grunting, moaning, coughing hulk of a man beside her spent 20 minutes tickling his brain.  

And as if God himself were whispering sweet nothings into my ear, five minutes after I took this picture he fell asleep and dropped his bag to his feet revealing that his fly was completely undone and gaping open!  At about the same time the heretofore victimized girl opens an adult magazine -- presumably designed for men -- and begins casually flipping through, reading the articles I'm sure.  

It was quite a picture.  Sadly I didn't have the guts to snap it: this blubbering man inebriated beyond measure, drifting out of consciousness only to chase a remaining chunk of booger that had so far eluded his chubby finger, his briefcase spilled out at his feet and his pants spilled out at his crotch, sitting next to an attractive woman who was so turned on by this situation that she couldn't wait until she got home to peruse her fresh copy of Juggs.

I LOVE TOKYO!!

Skiing in Hokkaido, plus a short story...

Last weekend I went skiing in Hokkaido. Hokkaido is the northern-most island in Japan, and it’s widely recognized as the best skiing in Asia. The mountain is, from what I’ve been told, not the best or most interesting mountain for a skier or a snowboarder, but what it lacks in terrain Hokkaido more than makes up for in quality of snow. “It’s like skiing on pure Colombian cocaine”, at least that’s how the snowboarders described it. I have never participated in any winter sports on anything other than solid ice: “It’s like skiing on Vick’s VapoRub-covered glass”. I digress.

The skiing was a lot of fun, and the resort was pretty spectacular. We skied for two days. On the first day, on my first run, my “friend” dragged me to the top of Mt. Niseko. We took the first ski lift, and went to the second to go a little higher. Then the third, and a little higher. Then we were out of ski lifts, so we took off our skis and hiked to the summit of the mountain. I mean summit -- there was a pile of rocks to commemorate those that had come this high! After much cajoling, he shamed me into “skiing” off the top instead of walking back with tears in my eyes. I say “skiing” because there really was very little that resembled the sport. It was me falling, rolling, feeling around in the powder for my skis and poles, trying to put them back on while upside down in the powder, struggling to stand up, falling a little farther down the mountain, and repeating the process. It takes a good skier about 30 minutes to get down the mountain from the summit and it took me 1 1/2 hours. FUN! But the rest of the weekend I just skied on official trails, and it really was a good time. It’s a very nice place, and skiing in powder really is a pretty amazing experience. I won’t spend any more time on this story, because there are no pictures with me in it (it was too cold for my camera to work consistently, something like 10 below zero). We had some guys from Colorado take our picture, but they have yet to email it to me.

This picture is from the summit, looking back at the hike we just covered. The top of the last lift is out of the frame to the left. To get a sense of scale, can you just make out the guy hiking up the ridge on the right?

And this is a random guy with his snowboard, looking down at the view from the summit.

Now onto what really made me want to make another blog entry: a nice short story.

Born in 1973, Bob grew up in Columbus, Ohio. His life was typical in almost every way. Baseball in the summers and basketball in the winters. Church most Sundays, and dinner afterward at his grandparents' house. A fist-fight in 9th grade with Billy Worth, and in 11th grade he shared his first kiss with a fat chick in his shop class.

In college, Bob started to realize that he wasn’t cool. The freshman girls weren’t interested in him, and his obsession with Dungeons and Dragons wasn’t yielding the friends he had hoped it would. He longed to get away, to get to a place that he could be himself. He took foreign languages and realized he was a quick study. He took German, Latin, and French, but grew weary of the focus on conjugations. Bob often talked to Japanese girls while perusing the comic book section of the student bookstore. They were always kind to him and rarely spit in his face, so he decided to redirect this penchant for foreign languages toward the Far East.

After graduation, with 4 semesters of Japanese under his belt, Bob took off for Tokyo to teach English. He had a great time in Tokyo, and really began to fit in. He no longer felt out of place for loving Anime, and his third-grader’s grasp of the language meant that he could effectively seduce almost any woman in Roppongi. Bob took up karate, and his sensei said he earned his green belt in record time. One night in Roppongi Bob met Yoko, a beautiful Japanese girl who found Bob’s pale skin and flowing locks of brown hair enchanting.

Yoko and Bob became inseparable, and one week before Bob’s 26th birthday he proposed to Yoko. “Hai! Hai! A thousand times Hai” she said. In 1999 Bob and Yoko were married in a purely Japanese ceremony in Yoko’s hometown of Kyoto. Yoko wore a traditional kimono, and so did Bob. On their 3rd wedding anniversary, to show his love for both Yoko and her culture, Bob officially changed his name to Hajime and became a Japanese citizen. Finally he had found a place where he belonged and where he felt comfortable just being himself.

To celebrate their 5th wedding anniversary, Hajime and Yoko went to a local photographer in Azabu Juban and had a portrait made of themselves. At home, they hung it proudly over their tatami mats in their tea room. Each evening, as Yoko serves Hajime tea, he looks at their picture and finds peace.

Meanwhile, ever the savvy marketer, the photographer made a second print and hung it in his shop window. And on a cold day in February 2009 a gaijin from Atlanta, GA walked by that shop, did a double take, laughed his ass off, and took a picture.

If I ever become this guy, I'm not sure whether I want you to pat me on the back or punch me in the face. But please don't let me have a portrait made.

Karaoke, Basketball, and Sushi

Last weekend I had my first real karaoke "experience". I'd sung karaoke before, with small groups of people, but this was my first opportunity to go sing with a majority of Japanese people. It was a great time, and I think I might be a karaoke junkie. There are probably nearly a thousand karaoke bars in Tokyo, and they're not the kind we're used to in the U.S. Here, it's a multi-floor facility with separate small rooms for groups of people from 2 to 25. On this Friday night we went to the karaoke bar across the street from my office, and got a room big enough to accommodate our group of 15 future Nihon-jin Idols. The rooms have seating around the edge, big tables, lights and tamborines, and a 19-inch TV off on the far end of the room. Frankly, they could have sprung for a bigger TV. We ended up drinking a heck of a lot of beer, and got out of there after 1 AM for around 5,000 Yen per person, or a little over $50. Not bad for a full 3 hours.

And for those of you questioning why I would enjoy karaoke so much, I submit Exhibit A:





And Exhibit B:





Your Honor, I rest my case.


On Saturday, this weekend, I went to a Japan Basketball League game about 1/2 hour train ride outside of town. It was in a prefectural sports complex south of Tokyo. The game was the Toshiba Brave Thunders (the home team) versus the Panasonic Trians. I have no idea what a Trian is. For that matter, I don't know what a Brave Thunder is either, but it does sound intimidating. These are local teams that hail from certain prefectures or cities, but they are sponsored by large Japanese companies. The cheerleaders chant T-O-S-H-I-B-A TOSHIBA!!! It'll get the blood pumping.





The game was lackluster. A veritable tour de force of two-handed layups and perimeter shooting the likes of which Larry Bird can only imagine. Truly, it was probably like watching a Division II college basketball team mid-season when the games don't really count. We did have very good seats though. Courtside at half-court. They really attempt to put on a show, and model themselves after the NBA I'm sure. But they were a little off with their multimedia. They played the exact same part of the exact same techno song each time the home team had the ball, and the exact same "da-du-da-da da-du-da-da DEFENSE" song each time the away team had the ball. And they wouldn't wait to make sure the turnover was permanent before hitting the change-song button. So often times the home team would be walking the ball down the court (TECHNO), and pass the ball into the arms of a visibly surprised guy on the other team (da-du-da-da) who would then trip and fall leaving the ball for the home team to pick up (TECHNO), who would shoot toward the portion of the court that contained the rim, hitting a disoriented away-team player in the back of the neck (da-du-da-da) only to leave the loose ball to be picked up by the home team's 6'3" center (TECHNO) and accidentally stepped out of bounds. It had the potential to become really annoying.









I was lamenting having spent 3,000 Yen on these seats for such a mediocre basketball game...until halftime. After halftime I was wondering how these seats could be half empty for such a bargain-basement price. The reason for my change of heart, you ask? Two words: Smoothie Cousin, a four-man boy band combining rhythm and soul for far and away the best half-time performance since Janet Jackson's nipple or an elementary school jump-rope squad. All the while being nearly 45% more uncomfortable than watching retarded kids play a short game of 4-on-4. Smoothie Cousin rocked, and I mean ROCKED, the house with "Your Sushi, My Hashi (chopsticks)". At least that's what I'm guessing this power ballad was called. It combined soulful melodies and harmonics with the pure sexual excitement of Japanese rap. For your enjoyment I smuggled a video, in direct contravention of the Boy Band Code of Ethics:




Today, Sunday, I went to eat sushi at Tsukiji (pronounced SKEE-JEE) fish market. The fish market itself is closed on Sundays, but the best sushi in town can be had within the market 7 days a week. I went with my friends Winnie and Masato. Winnie is Taiwanese, raised in the US and Cornell educated (so she's quite western and speaks perfect English -- and Mandarin and Japanese but who cares about those two useless languages) and works in real estate in Tokyo, and Masato is her Japanese boyfriend who works for one of the large Japanese "mega banks". Masato speaks English very well too, so guess how we all communicate! That's right, Latin.



They're both wonderful people and we enjoy hanging out together, and Masato loves to take me around his adopted hometown of Tokyo (he's originally from Osaka) to all of his favorite restaurants. He's an excellent guide and pretty good at ordering bizarre but edible food. We have eaten some strange stuff, and we plan to eat blowfish (which can kill you if prepared incorrectly) and whale in the near future. Today we had the following assortment, and I ate and pretty much enjoyed everything:


Fried, whole shrimp (you eat them like popcorn, and they're pretty good)



Mussels, really not that crazy



A sea snail, still in the shell. Delicious.



Squid, raw and cut into nice little slimy strips. I didn't really like this one. Not for the taste, but for the rubbery slimy mouthfeel. Blegh!





And by far the freshest sashimi (raw fish) I've ever eaten. That's the carcass of the fish, with its own flesh cut off and piled on top of it along with some grated-radish garnish. Check out the video below:

Who likes big, fat, sweaty men in diapers?

The Japanese do, that's who. But they call them Sumo wrestlers and they worship them. These guys are bad-asses, and they give every fat guy in Japan a chance to score a wife. It'd be like having the misfortune of looking like Brad Pitt in the States.

I went last weekend with a group of Gaijin, and had a great time! It's very Japanese, from the flags outside the stadium, to the stadium itself (which is dedicated to Sumo only). We had just about the worst seats in the stadium and still had fun, making friends with the Japanese people sitting around us and generally just taking it all in.

When you approach the stadium you see rows and rows of colorful flags, each of which represents a Sumo that is competing. They actually make a pretty picture. Each match takes about 5 minutes: 4 minutes and 45 seconds of preparing and 15 seconds of flesh-on-flesh. As soon as one Sumo pushes another out of the ring, the match is over. No points, no rounds, very simple. When you're out, you're done. So over the course of a day you might see 60 matches. And each Sumo only wrestles once a day, so right there you've got 120 wrestlers. The tournament lasts for a couple of weeks, and although the wrestlers compete over and over during the week, I'm sure there are more than 120 wrestlers and thus, more than 120 flags. Pretty cool.

Before each group of wrestlers begins their matches, they gather around for the "opening ceremonies" as it were, and a Shinto Priest blesses them and the ring.

Then each match begins with the exact same series of movements...

Then they line up against each other ready to do battle. We were at this angle for much of the day. In fact, it inspired a rather catchy simile -- we decided that my Southern accent was like a Sumo's testicle...it occasionally pops out.

And let the mayhem begin!

We went to lunch at a restaurant next to the stadium. They have a sumo ring set up in the middle of the restaurant and invite you to come up and try it out. As long as you're a man. Some of the girls in our group went up there and they yelled at them to get the hell off there. It's sacred ground I guess, and you know how a woman will mess up a sacred place in a heartbeat with all that menstrual stuff.

I challenged a Japanese guy sitting at another table to a match, and he taught me how to go through the Sumo moves. Then he taught me to respect my elders.

And here are the Sumo leaving at the end of the day, like celebrities. There was a big crowd of people hanging out at the gates waiting to see their favorites in person. And these guys know they're Huge in Japan (even more than me). They don't even make eye contact with their adoring fans or say a word to them. Hard core.

Oh, and here's a picture of me with the British Ambassador to Japan. I went to a Christmas party at his house in the British Embassy Compound back in December. That's how I roll...